Historically, two forms of pseudo-science were peculiarly prevalent --alchemy
and astrology. Neither of these can with full propriety be called
a science, yet both were pursued by many of the greatest
scientific workers of the period. Moreover, the studies of the
alchemist may with some propriety be said to have laid the
foundation for the latter-day science of chemistry; while
astrology was closely allied to astronomy, though its relations
to that science are not as intimate as has sometimes been
supposed.

Just when the study of alchemy began is undetermined. It was
certainly of very ancient origin, perhaps Egyptian, but its most
flourishing time was from about the eighth century A.D. to the
eighteenth century. The stories of the Old Testament formed a
basis for some of the strange beliefs regarding the properties of
the magic "elixir," or "philosopher's stone." Alchemists believed
that most of the antediluvians, perhaps all of them, possessed a
knowledge of this stone. How, otherwise, could they have
prolonged their lives to nine and a half centuries? And Moses was
surely a first-rate alchemist, as is proved by the story of the
Golden Calf. After Aaron had made the calf of gold, Moses
performed the much more difficult task of grinding it to powder
and "strewing it upon the waters," thus showing that he had
transmuted it into some lighter substance.

But antediluvians and Biblical characters were not the only
persons who were thought to have discovered the coveted.
"elixir." Hundreds of aged mediaeval chemists were credited with
having made the discovery, and were thought to be living on
through the centuries by its means. Alaies de Lisle, for example,
who died in 1298, at the age of 110, was alleged to have been at
the point of death at the age of fifty, but just at this time he
made the fortunate discovery of the magic stone, and so continued
to live in health and affluence for sixty years more. And De
Lisle was but one case among hundreds.

An aged and wealthy alchemist could claim with seeming
plausibility that he was prolonging his life by his magic;
whereas a younger man might assert that, knowing the great
secret, he was keeping himself young through the centuries. In
either case such a statement, or rumor, about a learned and
wealthy alchemist was likely to be believed, particularly among
strangers; and as such a man would, of course, be the object of
much attention, the claim was frequently made by persons seeking
notoriety. One of the most celebrated of these impostors was a
certain Count de Saint-Germain, who was connected with the court
of Louis XV. His statements carried the more weight because,
having apparently no means of maintenance, he continued to live
in affluence year after year--for two thousand years, as he
himself admitted--by means of the magic stone. If at any time his
statements were doubted, he was in the habit of referring to his
valet for confirmation, this valet being also under the influence
of the elixir of life.

"Upon one occasion his master was telling a party of ladies and
gentlemen, at dinner, some conversation he had had in Palestine,
with King Richard I., of England, whom he described as a very
particular friend of his. Signs of astonishment and incredulity
were visible on the faces of the company, upon which
Saint-Germain very coolly turned to his servant, who stood behind
his chair, and asked him if he had not spoken the truth. 'I
really cannot say,' replied the man, without moving a muscle;
'you forget, sir, I have been only five hundred years in your
service.' 'Ah, true,' said his master, 'I remember now; it was a
little before your time!' "

In the time of Saint-Germain, only a little over a century ago,
belief in alchemy had almost disappeared, and his extraordinary
tales were probably regarded in the light of amusing stories.
Still there was undoubtedly a lingering suspicion in the minds of
many that this man possessed some peculiar secret. A few
centuries earlier his tales would hardly have been questioned,
for at that time the belief in the existence of this magic
something was so strong that the search for it became almost a
form of mania; and once a man was seized with it, lie gambled
away health, position, and life itself in pursuing the coveted
stake. An example of this is seen in Albertus Magnus, one of the
most learned men of his time, who it is said resigned his
position as bishop of Ratisbon in order that he might pursue his
researches in alchemy.

If self-sacrifice was not sufficient to secure the prize, crime
would naturally follow, for there could be no limit to the price
of the stakes in this game. The notorious Marechal de Reys,
failing to find the coveted stone by ordinary methods of
laboratory research, was persuaded by an impostor that if he
would propitiate the friendship of the devil the secret would be
revealed. To this end De Reys began secretly capturing young
children as they passed his castle and murdering them. When he
was at last brought to justice it was proved that he had murdered
something like a hundred children within a period of three years.
So, at least, runs one version of the story of this perverted
being.

Naturally monarchs, constantly in need of funds, were interested
in these alchemists. Even sober England did not escape, and
Raymond Lully, one of the most famous of the thirteenth and
fourteenth century alchemists, is said to have been secretly
invited by King Edward I. (or II.) to leave Milan and settle in
England. According to some accounts, apartments were assigned to
his use in the Tower of London, where he is alleged to have made
some six million pounds sterling for the monarch, out of iron,
mercury, lead, and pewter.

Pope John XXII., a friend and pupil of the alchemist Arnold de
Villeneuve, is reported to have learned the secrets of alchemy
from his master. Later he issued two bulls against "pretenders"
in the art, which, far from showing his disbelief, were cited by
alchemists as proving that he recognized pretenders as distinct
from true masters of magic.

To moderns the attitude of mind of the alchemist is difficult to
comprehend. It is, perhaps, possible to conceive of animals or
plants possessing souls, but the early alchemist attributed the
same thing--or something kin to it--to metals also. Furthermore,
just as plants germinated from seeds, so metals were supposed to
germinate also, and hence a constant growth of metals in the
ground. To prove this the alchemist cited cases where previously
exhausted gold-mines were found, after a lapse of time, to
contain fresh quantities of gold. The "seed" of the remaining
particles of gold had multiplied and increased. But this
germinating process could only take place under favorable
conditions, just as the seed of a plant must have its proper
surroundings before germinating; and it was believed that the
action of the philosopher's stone was to hasten this process, as
man may hasten the growth of plants by artificial means. Gold was
looked upon as the most perfect metal, and all other metals
imperfect, because not yet "purified." By some alchemists they
were regarded as lepers, who, when cured of their leprosy, would
become gold. And since nature intended that all things should be
perfect, it was the aim of the alchemist to assist her in this
purifying process, and incidentally to gain wealth and prolong
his life.

By other alchemists the process of transition from baser metals
into gold was conceived to be like a process of ripening fruit.
The ripened product was gold, while the green fruit, in various
stages of maturity, was represented by the base metals. Silver,
for example, was more nearly ripe than lead; but the difference
was only one of "digestion," and it was thought that by further
"digestion" lead might first become silver and eventually gold.
In other words, Nature had not completed her work, and was
wofully slow at it at best; but man, with his superior faculties,
was to hasten the process in his laboratories--if he could but
hit upon the right method of doing so.

It should not be inferred that the alchemist set about his task
of assisting nature in a haphazard way, and without training in
the various alchemic laboratory methods. On the contrary, he
usually served a long apprenticeship in the rudiments of his
calling. He was obliged to learn, in a general way, many of the
same things that must be understood in either chemical or
alchemical laboratories. The general knowledge that certain
liquids vaporize at lower temperatures than others, and that the
melting-points of metals differ greatly, for example, was just as
necessary to alchemy as to chemistry. The knowledge of the gross
structure, or nature, of materials was much the same to the
alchemist as to the chemist, and, for that matter, many of the
experiments in calcining, distilling, etc., were practically
identical.

To the alchemist there were three principles--salt, sulphur, and
mercury--and the sources of these principles were the four
elements--earth, water, fire, and air. These four elements were
accountable for every substance in nature. Some of the
experiments to prove this were so illusive, and yet apparently so
simple, that one is not surprised that it took centuries to
disprove them. That water was composed of earth and air seemed
easily proven by the simple process of boiling it in a
tea-kettle, for the residue left was obviously an earthy
substance, whereas the steam driven off was supposed to be air.
The fact that pure water leaves no residue was not demonstrated
until after alchemy had practically ceased to exist. It was
possible also to demonstrate that water could be turned into fire
by thrusting a red-hot poker under a bellglass containing a dish
of water. Not only did the quantity of water diminish, but, if a
lighted candle was thrust under the glass, the contents ignited
and burned, proving, apparently, that water had been converted
into fire. These, and scores of other similar experiments, seemed
so easily explained, and to accord so well with the "four
elements" theory, that they were seldom questioned until a later
age of inductive science.

But there was one experiment to which the alchemist pinned his
faith in showing that metals could be "killed" and "revived,"
when proper means were employed. It had been known for many
centuries that if any metal, other than gold or silver, were
calcined in an open crucible, it turned, after a time, into a
peculiar kind of ash. This ash was thought by the alchemist to
represent the death of the metal. But if to this same ash a few
grains of wheat were added and heat again applied to the
crucible, the metal was seen to "rise from its ashes" and resume
its original form--a well-known phenomenon of reducing metals
from oxides by the use of carbon, in the form of wheat, or, for
that matter, any other carbonaceous substance. Wheat was,
therefore, made the symbol of the resurrection of the life
eternal. Oats, corn, or a piece of charcoal would have "revived"
the metals from the ashes equally well, but the mediaeval
alchemist seems not to have known this. However, in this
experiment the metal seemed actually to be destroyed and
revivified, and, as science had not as yet explained this
striking phenomenon, it is little wonder that it deceived the
alchemist.

Since the alchemists pursued their search of the magic stone in
such a methodical way, it would seem that they must have some
idea of the appearance of the substance they sought. Probably
they did, each according to his own mental bias; but, if so, they
seldom committed themselves to writing, confining their
discourses largely to speculations as to the properties of this
illusive substance. Furthermore, the desire for secrecy would
prevent them from expressing so important a piece of information.
But on the subject of the properties, if not on the appearance of
the "essence," they were voluminous writers. It was supposed to
be the only perfect substance in existence, and to be confined in
various substances, in quantities proportionate to the state of
perfection of the substance. Thus, gold being most nearly perfect
would contain more, silver less, lead still less, and so on. The
"essence" contained in the more nearly perfect metals was thought
to be more potent, a very small quantity of it being capable of
creating large quantities of gold and of prolonging life
indefinitely.

It would appear from many of the writings of the alchemists that
their conception of nature and the supernatural was so confused
and entangled in an inexplicable philosophy that they themselves
did not really understand the meaning of what they were
attempting to convey. But it should not be forgotten that alchemy
was kept as much as possible from the ignorant general public,
and the alchemists themselves had knowledge of secret words and
expressions which conveyed a definite meaning to one of their
number, but which would appear a meaningless jumble to an
outsider. Some of these writers declared openly that their
writings were intended to convey an entirely erroneous
impression, and were sent out only for that purpose.

However, while it may have been true that the vagaries of their
writings were made purposely, the case is probably more correctly
explained by saying that the very nature of the art made definite
statements impossible. They were dealing with something that did
not exist--could not exist. Their attempted descriptions became,
therefore, the language of romance rather than the language of
science.

But if the alchemists themselves were usually silent as to the
appearance of the actual substance of the philosopher's stone,
there were numberless other writers who were less reticent. By
some it was supposed to be a stone, by others a liquid or elixir,
but more commonly it was described as a black powder. It also
possessed different degrees of efficiency according to its
degrees of purity, certain forms only possessing the power of
turning base metals into gold, while others gave eternal youth
and life or different degrees of health. Thus an alchemist, who
had made a partial discovery of this substance, could prolong
life a certain number of years only, or, possessing only a small
and inadequate amount of the magic powder, he was obliged to give
up the ghost when the effect of this small quantity had passed
away.

This belief in the supernatural power of the philosopher's stone
to prolong life and heal diseases was probably a later phase of
alchemy, possibly developed by attempts to connect the power of
the mysterious essence with Biblical teachings. The early Roman
alchemists, who claimed to be able to transmute metals, seem not
to have made other claims for their magic stone.

By the fifteenth century the belief in the philosopher's stone
had become so fixed that governments began to be alarmed lest
some lucky possessor of the secret should flood the country with
gold, thus rendering the existing coin of little value. Some
little consolation was found in the thought that in case all the
baser metals were converted into gold iron would then become the
"precious metal," and would remain so until some new
philosopher's stone was found to convert gold back into iron--a
much more difficult feat, it was thought. However, to be on the
safe side, the English Parliament, in 1404, saw fit to pass an
act declaring the making of gold and silver to be a felony.
Nevertheless, in 1455, King Henry VI. granted permission to
several "knights, citizens of London, chemists, and monks" to
find the philosopher's stone, or elixir, that the crown might
thus be enabled to pay off its debts. The monks and ecclesiastics
were supposed to be most likely to discover the secret process,
since "they were such good artists in transubstantiating bread
and wine."

In Germany the emperors Maximilian I., Rudolf II., and Frederick
II. gave considerable attention to the search, and the example
they set was followed by thousands of their subjects. It is said
that some noblemen developed the unpleasant custom of inviting to
their courts men who were reputed to have found the stone, and
then imprisoning the poor alchemists until they had made a
certain quantity of gold, stimulating their activity with
tortures of the most atrocious kinds. Thus this danger of being
imprisoned and held for ransom until some fabulous amount of gold
should be made became the constant menace of the alchemist. It
was useless for an alchemist to plead poverty once it was noised
about that he had learned the secret. For how could such a man be
poor when, with a piece of metal and a few grains of magic
powder, he was able to provide himself with gold? It was,
therefore, a reckless alchemist indeed who dared boast that he
had made the coveted discovery.

The fate of a certain indiscreet alchemist, supposed by many to
have been Seton, a Scotchman, was not an uncommon one. Word
having been brought to the elector of Saxony that this alchemist
was in Dresden and boasting of his powers, the elector caused him
to be arrested and imprisoned. Forty guards were stationed to see
that he did not escape and that no one visited him save the
elector himself. For some time the elector tried by argument and
persuasion to penetrate his secret or to induce him to make a
certain quantity of gold; but as Seton steadily refused, the rack
was tried, and for several months he suffered torture, until
finally, reduced to a mere skeleton, be was rescued by a rival
candidate of the elector, a Pole named Michael Sendivogins, who
drugged the guards. However, before Seton could be "persuaded" by
his new captor, he died of his injuries.

But Sendivogins was also ambitious in alchemy, and, since Seton
was beyond his reach, he took the next best step and married his
widow. From her, as the story goes, he received an ounce of black
powder--the veritable philosopher's stone. With this he
manufactured great quantities of gold, even inviting Emperor
Rudolf II. to see him work the miracle. That monarch was so
impressed that he caused a tablet to be inserted in the wall of
the room in which he had seen the gold made.

Sendivogins had learned discretion from the misfortune of Seton,
so that he took the precaution of concealing most of the precious
powder in a secret chamber of his carriage when he travelled,
having only a small quantity carried by his steward in a gold
box. In particularly dangerous places, he is said to have
exchanged clothes with his coachman, making the servant take his
place in the carriage while he mounted the box.

About the middle of the seventeenth century alchemy took such
firm root in the religious field that it became the basis of the
sect known as the Rosicrucians. The name was derived from the
teaching of a German philosopher, Rosenkreutz, who, having been
healed of a dangerous illness by an Arabian supposed to possess
the philosopher's stone, returned home and gathered about him a
chosen band of friends, to whom he imparted the secret. This sect
came rapidly into prominence, and for a short time at least
created a sensation in Europe, and at the time were credited with
having "refined and spiritualized" alchemy. But by the end of the
seventeenth century their number had dwindled to a mere handful,
and henceforth they exerted little influence.

Another and earlier religious sect was the Aureacrucians, founded
by Jacob Bohme, a shoemaker, born in Prussia in 1575. According
to his teachings the philosopher's stone could be discovered by a
diligent search of the Old and the New Testaments, and more
particularly the Apocalypse, which contained all the secrets of
alchemy. This sect found quite a number of followers during the
life of Bohme, but gradually died out after his death; not,
however, until many of its members had been tortured for heresy,
and one at least, Kuhlmann, of Moscow, burned as a sorcerer.

The names of the different substances that at various times were
thought to contain the large quantities of the "essence" during
the many centuries of searching for it, form a list of
practically all substances that were known, discovered, or
invented during the period. Some believed that acids contained
the substance; others sought it in minerals or in animal or
vegetable products; while still others looked to find it among
the distilled "spirits"--the alcoholic liquors and distilled
products. On the introduction of alcohol by the Arabs that
substance became of all-absorbing interest, and for a long time
allured the alchemist into believing that through it they were
soon to be rewarded. They rectified and refined it until
"sometimes it was so strong that it broke the vessels containing
it," but still it failed in its magic power. Later, brandy was
substituted for it, and this in turn discarded for more recent
discoveries.

There were always, of course, two classes of alchemists: serious
investigators whose honesty could not be questioned, and clever
impostors whose legerdemain was probably largely responsible for
the extended belief in the existence of the philosopher's stone.
Sometimes an alchemist practised both, using the profits of his
sleight-of-hand to procure the means of carrying on his serious
alchemical researches. The impostures of some of these jugglers
deceived even the most intelligent and learned men of the time,
and so kept the flame of hope constantly burning. The age of cold
investigation had not arrived, and it is easy to understand how
an unscrupulous mediaeval Hermann or Kellar might completely
deceive even the most intelligent and thoughtful scholars. In
scoffing at the credulity of such an age, it should not be
forgotten that the "Keely motor" was a late nineteenth-century
illusion.

But long before the belief in the philosopher's stone had died
out, the methods of the legerdemain alchemist had been
investigated and reported upon officially by bodies of men
appointed to make such investigations, although it took several
generations completely to overthrow a superstition that had been
handed down through several thousand years. In April of 1772
Monsieur Geoffroy made a report to the Royal Academy of Sciences,
at Paris, on the alchemic cheats principally of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. In this report he explains many of the
seemingly marvellous feats of the unscrupulous alchemists. A very
common form of deception was the use of a double-bottomed
crucible. A copper or brass crucible was covered on the inside
with a layer of wax, cleverly painted so as to resemble the
ordinary metal. Between this layer of wax and the bottom of the
crucible, however, was a layer of gold dust or silver. When the
alchemist wished to demonstrate his power, he had but to place
some mercury or whatever substance he chose in the crucible, heat
it, throw in a grain or two of some mysterious powder, pronounce
a few equally mysterious phrases to impress his audience, and,
behold, a lump of precious metal would be found in the bottom of
his pot. This was the favorite method of mediocre performers, but
was, of course, easily detected.

An equally successful but more difficult way was to insert
surreptitiously a lump of metal into the mixture, using an
ordinary crucible. This required great dexterity, but was
facilitated by the use of many mysterious ceremonies on the part
of the operator while performing, just as the modern vaudeville
performer diverts the attention of the audience to his right hand
while his left is engaged in the trick. Such ceremonies were not
questioned, for it was the common belief that the whole process
"lay in the spirit as much as in the substance," many, as we have
seen, regarding the whole process as a divine manifestation.

Sometimes a hollow rod was used for stirring the mixture in the
crucible, this rod containing gold dust, and having the end
plugged either with wax or soft metal that was easily melted.
Again, pieces of lead were used which had been plugged with lumps
of gold carefully covered over; and a very simple and impressive
demonstration was making use of a nugget of gold that had been
coated over with quicksilver and tarnished so as to resemble lead
or some base metal. When this was thrown into acid the coating
was removed by chemical action, leaving the shining metal in the
bottom of the vessel. In order to perform some of these tricks,
it is obvious that the alchemist must have been well supplied
with gold, as some of them, when performing before a royal
audience, gave the products to their visitors. But it was always
a paying investment, for once his reputation was established the
gold-maker found an endless variety of ways of turning his
alleged knowledge to account, frequently amassing great wealth.

Some of the cleverest of the charlatans often invited royal or
other distinguished guests to bring with them iron nails to be
turned into gold ones. They were transmuted in the alchemist's
crucible before the eyes of the visitors, the juggler adroitly
extracting the iron nail and inserting a gold one without
detection. It mattered little if the converted gold nail differed
in size and shape from the original, for this change in shape
could be laid to the process of transmutation; and even the very
critical were hardly likely to find fault with the exchange thus
made. Furthermore, it was believed that gold possessed the
property of changing its bulk under certain conditions, some of
the more conservative alchemists maintaining that gold was only
increased in bulk, not necessarily created, by certain forms of
the magic stone. Thus a very proficient operator was thought to
be able to increase a grain of gold into a pound of pure metal,
while one less expert could only double, or possibly treble, its
original weight.

The actual number of useful discoveries resulting from the
efforts of the alchemists is considerable, some of them of
incalculable value. Roger Bacon, who lived in the thirteenth
century, while devoting much of his time to alchemy, made such
valuable discoveries as the theory, at least, of the telescope,
and probably gunpowder. Of this latter we cannot be sure that the
discovery was his own and that he had not learned of it through
the source of old manuscripts. But it is not impossible nor
improbable that he may have hit upon the mixture that makes the
explosives while searching for the philosopher's stone in his
laboratory. "Von Helmont, in the same pursuit, discoverd the
properties of gas," says Mackay; "Geber made discoveries in
chemistry, which were equally important; and Paracelsus, amid his
perpetual visions of the transmutation of metals, found that
mercury was a remedy for one of the most odious and excruciating
of all the diseases that afflict humanity."

Henry Smith Williams ends his alchemical monologue with reference to Syphilis. One is drawn to wonder how many other chemicals Paracelsus tried upon his diseased organ before his discovery that quicksilver compounds were effective.....